Pieces
by KHoobs
Summary: John spent months putting a life back together. When it gets broken up again, will he be able to pick the pieces up again? What if they don't fit the same way anymore? Working title. JohnLock. Constructive criticism appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

For the first month, John was blank. He didn't visit the cemetery again after the funeral. After a brief stay with an old army friend, he went back to the flat on Baker Street. Neither he nor Mrs. Hudson had changed a thing. Sherlock's clutter was all in its chaos, just as he had left it. John went to work and came home again. He went to the shops and bought the same groceries. Enough for two. Half always spoiled and got thrown out. His friends and colleagues worried about him, but as he never responded to any of their consolations or their scoldings, no one was sure how to help, other than to keep a close eye on him.

After that first month of shock, a floodgate of sorts opened up. He quit his job; too many patients only wanted to see the infamous victim of the mad Sherlock Holmes' ruse. Anyway, Mycroft has supplemented his bank account and Mrs. Hudson hadn't asked for rent since the fall. For the first time, John went to his sister for "comfort," which for Harry was always found in a bottle. More than a month passed with John spending the majority of his nights going home with various women from various bars. None of them lasted long. None of them ever saw the inside of 221B. The only nights John spent in his own bed were sober and alone.

Mycroft and John's latest therapist were preparing an intervention when John simply stopped. At this point, it seemed that John was finally going to express his grief in a "socially acceptable" manner. He restarted his therapy sessions. He cried more than once. His transgressions of the previous weeks were avoided, however. When his therapist attempted to talk to him about it, John got up and walked out. Not wanting to provoke the doctor into abandoning his therapy again, the topic remained untouched.

John found a new job on the opposite end of London. The commute was long, but it was refreshing, being in unfamiliar places, seeing different people. People still recognized him occasionally, but the instances became less frequent. Women in his office were friendly, and a little too eager to assist Dr. Watson or bring him baked goods that they all claimed were homemade. John caught on that they were all actually bought from the same bakery a few blocks away from the hospital. He politely turned down their advances until they finally stopped.

He began having meals regularly with Mrs. Hudson. Their conversations were generally light and generic, Mrs. Hudson inquiring about John's work, John complaining about his patients. A façade of normality settled around Baker Street.

One day, John left work early due to a lack of patients. He found himself at home, looking desolately around the quiet flat. It still looked exactly as it did months before, aside from the dust accumulating on Sherlock's things. John had done all he could to not be alone in the flat for as long as possible, but there he was. Mrs. Hudson was out of town for a few days. John couldn't think of a place to go or anyone to call up. For the first time, John Watson felt haunted by the flat around him.

There was a stack of broken down cardboard boxes sitting in the back of his closet, left over from when he moved in. They'd been kept because John wasn't sure how long he'd be staying at the time. He rushed now to retrieve them. Nearly tripping back down the stairs in his haste, he threw them down on the floor. Almost frantically, he put the boxes together and started stowing papers and notes and books into them. All the clutter in the kitchen, on the floor, anything that hadn't been touched in nearly eight months, it all went into the boxes. He handled it all with an urgent care; he didn't want any of it ripped or ruined, he just needed it out of his sight.

Finally, John stood panting in the middle of the sitting room amid boxes full of memories. His eyes were watery; he told himself it was from the dust he stirred up. He looked around at his work for a brief moment before dropping into his chair, holding his face in his hands. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes that he was sitting there when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. As Mrs. Hudson stepped in, knocking on the open door quietly, she opened her mouth to ask a question. She was silenced by the scene in front of her, and weaved her way through the boxes. She laid a hand on John's shoulder and stood silently for a moment.

"Getting started on spring cleaning a bit early, are we? It's awfully dusty in here, John. Perhaps we should open a window…" John didn't move. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and sighed. Without another word, she removed her hand and left the room.

John sat there for only a few minutes after the landlady had vacated the flat. Clearing his throat, he straightened up in the chair and looked around, taking inventory of the number of boxes. He picked up the one closest to him and debated what to do with it. The one room in the flat that had escaped John's scouring was Sherlock's bedroom. Swallowing heavily, he nudged the door open with his shoulder. He took a deep breath of the still, musty air. Compared to the rest of the flat, which had constantly been buried beneath piles of case-related clutter and remnants and notes on experiments, the bedroom was surprisingly neat. Granted, John noted that Sherlock had rarely spent an entire night's sleep in his own room. He had normally dozed in his chair, like a cat; never fully asleep, and easily brought back to consciousness by the smallest of stimuli.

John shook himself out of his reverie and set the box in the corner of the room. Without another look around, he left the room. He had all the boxes stored in the bedroom in short order. When his task was done, he stood in the doorway, looking like he might say something. He only sniffed and glanced around one last time. Then he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

It wasn't terribly late, but John felt drained. He found some leftovers Mrs. Hudson had left for him in the fridge. He stood at the counter, eating and drinking a glass of scotch. He hadn't drank since his "break," but he felt that today had been as good an excuse as any to indulge himself. Finishing up, he dropped his plate into the sink and refilled his glass. Draining it again, he trudged up the stairs and fell into bed.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke early the next morning. He sat at the edge of his bed, taking several deep breaths. He had a monstrous headache, though he certainly hadn't had enough to drink to cause a hangover. He forced himself up out of bed and went down for a shower.

He stopped short as he entered the mostly-bare living room. A twinge in his gut made him regret packing up the room. He sighed, trying to clear his mind. He knew he had a full day of appointments ahead of him; he didn't need to be distracted today.

John's day was indeed busy, busier than he had thought it would be. He'd barely had time to breath, let alone mope about. He managed to drink a cup of coffee between patients, but his lunch break was interrupted by an emergent appointment. By the end of the day, John was exhausted. He grabbed another cup of coffee before catching a cab to the tube station. The commute back to Baker Street was unremarkable, but John was overjoyed to see the lights of his flat shining through the windows onto the pavement.

Upon entering the stairwell, he noticed that Mrs. Hudson's flat appeared to be empty and quiet. She had been coming down with a cold, so he just assumed that she had turned in early. That was his plan, anyway. He climbed up the first flight of stairs and only paused in the main room long enough to throw his jacket over the back of a chair. He then trudged heavily up to his room and collapsed on his bed, barely managing to strip himself down to his undershirt and boxers and drop his clothes in a heap on the floor. His tired brain was asleep within moments of hitting the pillow, haven taken almost no notice to his surroundings as he had made his way through the flat. Indeed, aside from being only just conscious enough to not fall asleep in his clothes, he had failed to notice that everything that had been packed up and stowed away the day before was all back in its original positions, just as they had been since the previous June. He failed to notice the kettle sitting on the stovetop instead of its customary place in the cabinet, or the teacup sitting on the table in the sitting room, steam still rising.

John had missed all of this.

* * *

Author's Note:

Hey there. So, this is the first fic I've written in years. Tossing the first chapter up on ff.n was a bit of an experiment. I'm still not super sure about it, so some criticism for it would be appreciated. Also, I have a hard time finishing stories sometimes, so I apologise ahead of time. Also, you may have noticed that this chapter is far, far shorter than the first. That happens. I'm not a consistent writer. Sorry again. Also, I didn't mention before, either, but I do not actually own Sherlock. I think disclaimers are stupid, seeing as how this is a fanfiction site. Obviously, we don't own the stuff we're writing about. Either way. A few reviews would be pleasing to this one. Cheers.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the fact that John had almost literally collapsed into bed from exhaustion, his sleep was not easy. His dreams were mundane, but vivid and distracting him from sound sleep. More than once he woke up, feeling uneasy, like he wasn't alone.

In the morning, John woke up slowly. He felt like hell, a result from one of the worst night's sleeps he'd had. He rolled over to look at the clock. 9:37. He bolted upright. He'd missed his alarm. He was supposed to have been at work at 8:00. Despite the aches in his body protesting, he scrambled out of bed, searching for his phone. No doubt it would be full of furious calls and texts from the surgery, wondering where the hell he was.

His mobile was nowhere to be found in his room. He'd probably left it downstairs in his coat when he threw it over the chair when he got home last night. Without bothering to take a shower, John threw some clothes on. He'd have to find a cab to take him across town; he wouldn't have time to wait for the tube. Absently, as he was searching for a clean pair of trousers, John registered that he could smell coffee from downstairs. He was so focused on getting dressed, though, that the fact that fresh coffee was present in his flat didn't strike him as out of place.

As he scrambled down the stairs, he cursed himself brutally. He dashed to the chair he had left his coat on the night before. He paused then, because his jacket wasn't there anymore. John looked around, now forced to take in the flat around him.

For a split second, he thought he'd gone mad. He regained his senses and took a harder look around. He saw that the sitting room was again filled with the clutter he had cleared out and stowed away two days before. The color drained from his face as his heart rate quickened. Again the idea that he had gone mad, cracked for good this time, crossed his mind. A sound from behind him, from the kitchen, caused the bottom of his stomach to drop and make him feel sick.

It was the sound of someone simultaneously clearing his throat and setting down a mug on the countertop. The moment between the perception of the sound and John's turning towards it seemed to last a lifetime. He forgot about work. Nothing else existed then but that sound and its source. John pivoted slowly, his body tense, prepared for fight or flight. It all depended on what he saw.

It was then that John decided that he really had gone mad. There, sitting in front of the microscope that had been boxed away, was Sherlock Holmes. In some aspects, it looked like he had never gone away. His lanky form still looked like it belonged there, still part of the atmosphere of the flat. His hair was cut shorter than John had seen it, and he looked as though he had been ill. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his face looked strained.

Neither man moved or spoke. John's jaw tightened and he clenched his fists. Sherlock pursed his lips, seemingly lost for words, probably for the first time in his life. He had planned this moment out, down to the last detail. Now that he was faced with it, however, he wasn't sure how to continue. Besides, John wasn't quite reacting the way Sherlock had expected. He still hadn't moved, aside from the tendon in his jaw. Sherlock had expected shouting, violence. John was a passionate, emotional person.

Another moment passed before Sherlock decided that enough was enough. "Coffee, John?" John blinked but didn't relax. He saw his phone sitting at the end of the counter. Without replying, he stepped forward and grabbed it. It was devoid of inquiring texts or missed calls from the surgery. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's face.

"I took the liberty of calling the surgery last night. Told them you wouldn't be in today. Coffee?" He asked again.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, John walked across the kitchen. His favorite mug was sitting out, filled with still-hot coffee. He picked it up but didn't drink, just stared into the liquid. Sherlock eyed him cautiously, still waiting for a more characteristic reaction.

John set the mug back down. He turned to face Sherlock, his face solidly devoid of emotion. His mind was racing, however. Sherlock was shocked that he couldn't read the doctor nearly as much as he was accustomed to. John had spent the past several months stowing his emotions away.

"Sherlock."

"John?"

Suddenly John was full of emotion, and Sherlock's jaw was full of John's fist.

* * *

Author's Note:

Well, well, well, chapter three. Care to let me know how I'm doing? I'm serious when I say I would like some constructive criticism. Nice reviews are nice, too. Cheers.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock suffered more than a couple blows from John before the latter finally ran out of fire and was able to step back and attempt to calm himself down. He stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, panting slightly and flexing his battered knuckles.

Sherlock regained himself, ears still ringing slightly, and turned to fetch a wet towel and some ice. John eyed him as he moved about the kitchen. His mind was racing.

"He's not dead. He's not a hallucination. My hand hurts too much for me to have been hitting a hallucination. So. He's alive. He's back. Damn. What now?"

While John stood in his thoughts, Sherlock had returned to his seat, dabbing at the cuts and bruises John had given him. He watched the doctor cautiously. Finally, John snapped himself out of his musings. He straightened up and took a deep breath.

"Right. So. You're back."

"I am. Good of you to notice."

"No. Don't. Don't even. You, right now, do not get to be like that. You were dead and gone and I went crazy and you do not get to come back here and be all…_you._"

Sherlock blinked. "You went crazy?"

John paused. "What? No, yeah. Never mind that. You were dead. I saw you. Saw you jump off that bloody building, quite literally bloody, smashed on the bloody pavement. You gonna tell me that that was all a farce? A joke? That I was too stupid to see through your bloody ruse, and you just kept at it, seeing how long you could string me along? How close to the edge you could push me? Because I will tell you right now that it was not funny. It is still not funny. Frankly, right now, you're lucky I didn't just kill you for real."

There was silence. The two men stared at each other. Sherlock felt odd; not knowing what to say at any particular moment was neither normal nor comforting to him. John moved first. Sherlock actually jumped as John reached forward. John hesitated for a split second before grabbing the cloth out of Sherlock's hand. His face stern and solid again, he took the wet corner of the towel and moved it towards Sherlock's face. Sherlock just stared at him.

"Your face is bleeding."

"Well, you did hit me. A lot. Though not as much as I expected, so thank you." John frowned at him. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched and John proceeded to wipe at a cut under his eye. They didn't speak again for several minutes. John finished up cleaning the wounds he had inflicted and tossed the wet rag and the nearly melted ice into the sink. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed in front of his chest, and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock knew he was waiting for an explanation.

"John. I really do understand why you are so upset. And I deserve it. I really do. But there are things you don't understand, about why I did what I did. And I will tell you. But you need to calm down first. No, no, don't get like that again. I just told you to calm down. Doctor's orders." Sherlock smirked slightly. John's face remained nearly emotionless, if a little grumpy, but he went to the living room and sat down. Sherlock followed and took his old seat back.

John rested his elbows on his knees and held his head, the same way he had sat there two days ago. He took a deep breath and looked up at the ghost sitting in front of him.

"So. Tell me."

* * *

Author's Note:

Have I mentioned before that I am a very inconsistent writer? I'm a very inconsistent writer. Obviously. Days or weeks in between chapters, different chapter lengths. My bad. Anyway. Look, a wild dialogue appeared! Get your Masterball! Okay, some Pokemon nerd humor. Sorry. Anyway. Again. Um. Constructive criticism always appreciated, as are hellos and such. So. Cheers.


	5. Chapter 5

"So. Tell me."

The men stared at each other. John's anger had begun fade into a grumpy bewilderment. Sherlock was studying his friend closely. With the exception of his tired eyes and lingering anger, he found John to be looking exceptionally well. In truth, Sherlock was slightly disappointed. True, it had been several months, but he hadn't been able to deny the feeling of what might have been sadness when he returned to find that the flat had so recently been cleared of his belongings.

"Well, what do you know already? I'll fill in the blanks for you." John scowled.

"You jumped."

"Yes, John, we've already covered that. Anything else?"

John chewed the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath.

"You jumped. Moriarty's body was found on the roof. The police originally thought that you shot him and then jumped. Forensics ruled that out. Then they thought that he pushed you and then shot himself. Also ruled out. There's been a drawn out case to clear your name. Police found out that Richard Brook and all of his records had been falsified. That journalist that helped him has been in an ongoing trial for fraud and conspiracy, but she'll probably get off."

Sherlock nodded ever so slightly. "Anything else?"

John practically growled, "You were dead. I saw your body, went to your grave. Mrs. Hudson tried to pack up your stuff and I stopped her. I cleared off for awhile but I came back. And now you're back, too."

Sherlock nodded again.

"Yes, all of that is true, with the exception of me being dead. Obviously."

John repeated, almost in wonder, "Obviously." He was beginning to feel tired again, his mood softening. He studied Sherlock, as if waiting for the bruised man in front of him to turn back into a dream. Sherlock stirred.

"Moriarty had assassins for you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Unless I died, you would. He could have called them off. I could have made him. But he was too quick and he shot himself before I could do anything. I had no choice. I refused to be responsible for your deaths."

For some reason, John wasn't particularly surprised by this information. A little unsettled, but not surprised.

"I had an idea that Moriarty was going to demand my suicide, so I made some arrangements. I had Molly's help." John raised an eyebrow at this.

"Yes, John, I asked for help. From Molly. Moving on." John smirked. "I did end up fairly injured; Mycroft holed me up in some private hospital. It was horrible. Bored out of my mind, in a neck brace, without any worthwhile pain killers." John smirked again, imagining Sherlock restrained in a hospital bed to keep him from running off. Sherlock scowled at him, knowing precisely what was making John grin. The doctor forced a straight face. Sherlock remained unimpressed, but continued his narrative.

"Once I was released from my captivity, I went abroad. Spent some time in New Zealand, still bored. Mycroft kept an annoyingly close watch on me. And now I'm here."

John stared at him. "But how did you actually do it?" His quasi-death and hiatus had apparently instilled a bit of humanity into Sherlock, as he had the decency to look uncomfortable. He shook his head.

"I was on the pavement. I was conscious. I could see you. I could hear you. But the majority of the crowd was all part of the plan. I…It wasn't easy."

"And the grave? Is that just empty then, I assume?"

"What? Oh, no, there's a body buried there. One who had his name legally changed to Sherlock Holmes before he died, along with having all of his documents altered to reflect the change. So the grave is legitimate, in a manner of speaking."

John sat back, shaking his head slowly. His mind was reeling. Sherlock looked at him questioningly. John just shook his head again.

"You know what? I don't want to hear anymore. I don't care." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. The men stayed silent, looking at each other for a long interlude. Sherlock was the one to break the silence.

"You went crazy?" he asked again with a gentility John didn't know the man was capable of. He hadn't kept track of John while he was gone. He didn't want to witness the pain he had inflicted. Mycroft sent him regular updates, but Sherlock tossed them without a second thought.

John took a deep breath.

"A little bit, yeah. Don't you already know? I'd expect you to have a full account of every second that you missed while you were off enjoying the afterlife. Transcripts from my therapists, copies of all my receipts from every tube and taxi I took. You obviously know where I'm working."

"You have a contact in your mobile named 'work.' Hardly a mystery." He paused. "Therapists? Plural?"

John sighed and frowned, feeling sad and ashamed of himself. Sherlock took in the sight of the shift in emotion. He, too, felt a pang of shame at having turned the soldier into the defeated man in front of him. John was about to share his half of the story with Sherlock when the doorbell rang.

* * *

Author's Note:

Alrighty, moving along. I'm not 100% happy with this chapter. But it had better be good enough, because I wrote it instead of taking biology notes. Far more interesting, at any rate. Anyway, you know the drill. You've read it. Hopefully enjoyed it. How about some constructive criticism? I know that you're out there, reading this. I can see you, all in a neat graph form. Take a minute, write a review. Otherwise I'm going to have to give this to my adviser and make her read it. She's a Sherlock fan, too. Alright, I'm done nagging for now. Cheers.


	6. Chapter 6

John jumped at the sudden sound. He'd forgotten about everything that was outside of his flat and the man sitting in front of him. Sherlock turned to look at the landing, waiting to see who might be coming up the stairs. John interceded by shooting a glance at Sherlock as he got up and went to get the door before the mystery visitor entered without permission, as some were wont to do. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have rung the bell. Greg only knocked once before coming on up.

Sherlock remained seated, listening to John go down to the door. John opened the door. Sherlock listened carefully, trying to identify the bell ringer. He could hear voices, John and an unfamiliar male, but the conversation was too low for him to make out any words. He could tell that John was upset, if not angry. Sherlock had to resist the very strong urge to creep to the doorway in order to better assess the situation.

The conversation ended abruptly. To his immense surprise, Sherlock heard two sets of footsteps exit the flat and the slam of the door behind them. He held his breath, waiting for John to come back. Seconds passed, but they felt like hours to Sherlock. Another second and he was up and down the stairs. He had worked too hard to mask his trail back to John; he wasn't going to let anything stand in the way. He fetched the handgun that he had left by the doorway and crept down the stairs.

He quietly swung the door open and slid out onto the front stoop, nearly knocking John down in the process.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell d'you think you're doing?" John had grasped Sherlock's forearm to steady himself but he quickly released him as soon as he realized it. Sherlock looked bewildered, looking from John to the other man standing on the sidewalk, who appeared equally confused. Pink patches spread uncharacteristically across Sherlock's cheeks and he tried to hide the gun from view.

John had noticed, though, and he groaned and pressed at his temple. He felt a migraine coming on, something he usually associated with Sherlock being…Sherlock. "Sherlock, get back inside. Marty, I'll call you later. We'll figure something out then. See you." Without another word of explanation, John practically shoved Sherlock back through the door, leaving the flabbergasted Marty staring at 221.

Sherlock was prodded back up into the flat. He hadn't had a chance to ask John what was going on. John was nearly fuming again. Trust Sherlock to reappear out of the blue and manage to throw John's carefully rearranged life into a blender. Once Sherlock was standing in the entrance to the flat, John pushed past him to throw himself back into his chair, rubbing his temple again.

Sherlock stood there for a moment before easing his way back to his own seat. "John," he spoke calmly, "I'm sorry. I… I don't know what came over me." John shot him a glare.

"Yeah, well, neither do I. What did you mean by it, charging out the door, gun in hand, knocking me off over the railing? Christ. Marty's going to think I've gone mental." He paused, thinking it over. "I'm not sure that I haven't done just that, actually. Now, explain, please."

Sherlock had composed himself again. He set his gun on a nearby table. "I heard quarreling and you leaving the flat, and I just thought I should check in on things." John gaped at him.

"Were you… were you worried about me?" The blush reappeared on Sherlock's face. John caught it this time, and his lips twitched into smile he forced away. New emotional, embarrassed Sherlock was amusing to him.

"Of course not. I was just overly-curious. I apologise." John gaped again. Now he wasn't sure he found this human-Sherlock as amusing anymore. So much had happened within the past few hours, John didn't know what to think anymore. The Sherlock he knew before wouldn't have given up an apology that easily.

"There's something you're not telling me about the past year, isn't there?" Sherlock blinked at him. He opened his mouth to reply, but John shook his head. "No, I said earlier, you don't get to be you right now. You don't get to be distant and misdirecting. I want some damned answers, not that shit you told me before, that you were sitting out in New Zealand, twiddling your thumbs, and then you randomly popped back home for tea." Sherlock slumped back in his chair. Another foreign behavior that John found himself unable to discern.

"John, I know. Right now, I am not me. And I don't like it any more than you do, but right now, we're both going to have to take our medicine and deal with it. This is what is happening right now. And John, I'm tired. I'm back because I wanted to be, and because…" Sherlock hesitated, "…because I need your help."

* * *

Author's Note:

Sorry for the wait. I was on vacation, then I got a new computer, and then I decided I hated this whole thing and nearly tossed the whole thing out. Anyway, still not pleased, but, you know, here it is. As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, love is welcomed. Cheers.


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